


Pezberry Week: 9 July - 15 July

by thecrackshiplollipop



Series: Pezberry Week [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Pezberry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop/pseuds/thecrackshiplollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of my posts for Pezberry Week in one convenient location! **Warning** All of these were written late at night and I've been running on less sleep than I'm used to. These haven't been heavily edited and I haven't had them beta'd so, all of the mistakes are mine. Eventually, I'll sit down and have at these with a red pen so they'll appear differently here than on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Inappropriate Flirting

“Santana, that is wildly inappropriate.” Rachel fusses with the collar of her dress and purses her lips disapprovingly. 

“C’mon Berry. This is literally our last chance to sing together.”

“Not literally. The apartment you rented is down the block from my dorm. We can go to karaoke bars any time we want.” Rachel folds her hands in her lap and looks smugly satisfied.

“Raaachel,” Santana drawls and flops down on the sagging couch in Puck’s basement. Sam is quietly playing Black Ops in the corner, a half-eaten Poptart sticking out of his mouth, and a look of intense concentration on his face. He’s not paying attention to them, and they’re the only others in the basement. 

“Hm,” Rachel crosses and uncrosses her legs. Santana’s eyes follow the movement and Rachel watches as the tips of Santana’s fingers drift in a circle over her knee. She fidgets and Santana leans closer. “I’ll be the first to admit, it’s a …tempting proposition.”

“Berry.” Santana levels her gaze with Rachel’s, her near-black eyes completely unreadable. 

“Well…” Rachel messes with the skirt of her dress and sighs heavily. The small basement room is full of sound, Brittany and Quinn singing Can’t Fight the Moonlight on Rachel’s karaoke machine upstairs, faint ‘chug-chug-chug’-ing from outside where the keg is, and heavy gunfire from Sam’s game. Santana’s eyes are almost puppy dog big and Rachel fidgets uncomfortably.

“Rach. Those boys won’t know what hit ‘em.” Santana’s fingers skip along the hemline of Rachel’s skirt.

“San,” Rachel says warningly when Santana leans in closely, her dark eyes dropping to Rachel’s mouth. Rachel can almost feel the heat of Santana’s skin. She smells like limes, tequila, and suntan oil - the smell of Rachel’s last completely careless summer, of a road trip to Columbus Zoo where they were smushed together on the hump in Sam’s station wagon, of her first keg stand, of learning to graffiti golden stars all over Lima Heights Adjacent, of a sleepover at Quinn’s where they had to share her bed and Rachel was stuck in between them.

“I’ll make it worth your while, Berry.” Santana’s voice is low and serious, her eyes say ‘please’. It’s enough to break Rachel’s resolve and she wraps her hands around Santana’s wrists. 

“Fine.”

\---

“I can’t believe we did that,” Rachel is still slightly breathless, leaning against the kitchen counter top with flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Santana is rifling through the fridge for left over Jell-o shots, swaying her hips in time with Tina’s stunning rendition of Oh Land’s Wolf & I. Rachel watches, her hands fluttering from her hips to the counter top, searching for a stance that screams ‘casual’.

“What? I’ve been working on my own rendition of Crimson and Clover for five months. You make an exceedingly good pole.” Santana straightens, balancing four plastic shot glasses full of neon Jell-o in one hand and gripping a jar of olives in the other. “And back up,” she shrugs at Rachel’s glare and bumps the other girl with her hip so she can use the empty counter space behind her.

“But… but… it was so explicit.” 

“The song?” Santana tilts her head back and presses the plastic rim against her bottom lip, letting the contents of the cup slide into her mouth.

“No,” Rachel says, exasperated, snatches a pink shot from the counter top and dislodges the Jell-o with a slow swipe of her tongue. Santana stares, open mouthed, and squeezes the plastic cup with a soft grunt. “The dancing,” she ignores Santana and reaches for the purple shot, right next to Santana’s hand.

“Ah,” Santana snatches the cup away from Rachel and smirks at Rachel’s soft whine. “That was the point.” Rachel leans into Santana and reaches for the cup, which Santana is now holding high above her head, well out of Rachel’s reach.

“Santana,” Rachel whines and grabs at the cup. She doesn’t notice Santana slipping an arm around her waist and only stops stretching for the shot when she feels Santana’s hand come to a rest on her ass. “Oh.”

“I wanna do everything.” Santana sings slowly and drops the Jell-o shot into the sink. She feels Rachel shiver against her when she slides her now-free hand down to Rachel’s ass. Santana tugs Rachel closer, her gaze dropping to Rachel’s mouth again.

“Everything?” Rachel’s voice catches.

“Over,” Santana presses Rachel back until Rachel’s back is against the counter again, “and over.” She lifts Rachel up just slightly and uses the leverage to slip in between Rachel’s legs.

“Over and over.” Rachel goes weak kneed as soon as Santana kisses her.

The karaoke track switches over in the living room, and Finn’s loud, drunken Every Rose Has its Thorn drowns out Rachel’s moan when Santana suggests they find the Puckerman’s guest room.


	2. Day 2: Living Together

“RACH.” Santana skitters down the hallway and rounds a sharp corner, coming to a halt in the kitchen. Rachel is standing in front of the open fridge, hand on hip, hair in a messy ponytail. She’s still dressed for her run, but she’s kicked off her running shoes at the front door and her jacket is draped over the back of the sofa. Santana is wrapped in a green towel, but her face is still smudged with last night’s make up.

“Santana?” Rachel closes the fridge and leans against it, looking as exhausted as Santana feels.

“WE HAVE HOT WATER.” Santana watches as Rachel’s eyes go wide. 

“No.”

“Waaay.” Rachel is already pushing past her, her skin ice cold and clammy from her run through Central Park.

She’d done the same thing she did every morning before work. She’d removed her old nail polish while letting the water run, but when she’d stuck her hand under the spray she felt delicious heat instead of the usual room temp. She'd switched the tap off, wrapped herself in a towel, and ran down the narrow hallway as fast as possible.

“What if it doesn’t last?” They’re squeezed into the bathroom, both of their hands wet from testing the water’s temperature. It is so warm. Rachel's itching to hop into the shower immediately, but she's afraid of how lethal Santana’s vengeance would be.

“It won’t. I mean. I switched the tap off and it came back warm. I’ll take a quick shower, okay?” Santana looks awful, eyes smudged with black eyeliner, a smear of red lipstick trailing from her lips across her cheek. Not pretty.

“Yeah. I’ll make breakfast.” Rachel slips out of the bathroom and hurries to the kitchen, the idea of her first warm shower in the two month’s she’d been living with Santana making her giddier than usual.

Santana emerges from the shower to the smell of bacon. Satisfied with panties and a camisole, she twists her hair into a bun and follows the tasty breakfast smells into the kitchen. Rachel is bouncing from foot-to-foot in front of the stove, a small grimace on her face as she flips a few pieces of bacon in the pan.

“Bacon, eh?”

“Celebrating,” Rachel says with a gasp and switches places with Santana who gladly pokes at a slice of sizzling bacon and eyes the scrambled eggs in the other pan.

“Clearly. Thanks, Rach. You didn’t have t-“

“Nonsense. You clearly worked your magic with the landlord.” Rachel kisses Santana’s cheek gently and squeezes her elbow. “Thank you. I haven’t been this excited about bathing since I learned how to shave.” Santana just grins and Rachel is off down the hall into the bathroom faster than she can blink.

Santana polishes off half of the bacon before she hears the shower cut on down the hall. She stands up to refill her coffee cup when an ungodly screech fills the tiny apartment.

“GODDAMMIT! SANTANA!” 

“Shit! Berry!” Santana hurries down the hall and yanks the bathroom door open, finding Rachel standing in the bathtub with her hair soaking wet and a miserable expression on her face.

“It’s cold.” Rachel glares at Santana and points at the spray of water still hitting her side. She’s covering up the important stuff, in any other situation Santana would be hitting on her because Berry looks phenomenal with wet skin. But her drowned rat impression is spot on and hilarious, Santana doesn’t try very hard to stifle her laughter.

“OUT!” Rachel shouts and moves to step out of the tub but stops when she slips a little in the tub.

“Do you need me to hold you, Berry?” Santana chuckles and ducks as a tube of her own body wash sails over her head. “Alright, alright. I’m going.” Santana grins and steps out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. 

She returns to the kitchen in time to see their cat, Wigglytuff, steal a slice of bacon from her plate and scatter her salsa covered scrambled eggs all over the counter top.

“Fucking- Wigglytuff! You get your ass back here!” She takes a step after the cat, but stops when she hears laughter from the direction of the bathroom. “Hey! Fuck you, Berry!”

“KARMA!” Rachel shouts loudly over the spray, and Santana mutters in Spanish as she begrudgingly starts to clean up the cat’s mess.


	3. Day 3: Nerd!Santana / Popular!Rachel

Santana is straining to squeeze her gigantic history binder into her too-small locker while also trying to follow Artie as he checks her pre-cal homework.

“Check the derivative on four, and and the modulus on eight. Other than that, it’s perfect.” Artie holds out her homework and Santana almost drops her binder when she reaches for the notebook. “Sorry,” Artie grins sheepishly and puts the notebook on his lap.

“S’cool. Thanks for the help.” She grins appreciatively, tucks the notebook under her arm, and slams the door to her locker with a relieved sigh. “You think you’ll be able to make it to tonight’s game?”

“Err…” Artie rubs his bicep self consciously and shrugs. “I don’t know, Santana.”

“Puckerman isn’t coming.” Santana offers and nudges her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “So far, it’s just me, Sam, Quinn, and Chang. Oh, and Tina. ‘Cause her and Mike are attached at the lips.”

“Hm. Interesting proposition. Poké showdown with some of the most skilled competitors in all of Lima, beer, and poptarts… or another Friday night rewatching BSG.” Artie taps his chin thoughtfully and then grins, “alright, I’m in.”

“Perfect," Santana grins and gives him a thumbs up. "See you in second period!” She says before she trots off down the hallway, in the same direction a bouncy, blond ponytail is heading.

* * *

“So, are we going to work on our duet tonight?” Rachel practically pounces on Santana in the hallway. She’s bright and bubbly, like she is every day, except Santana is bone tired from lacrosse practice and doesn’t really want to deal with Rachel’s enthusiasm.

“Huh?” Is all she manages before leaning into her locker to close it.

“Santana,” Rachel says, drawing out the last syllable of Santana’s name. “Our duet, for West Side Story. They cut rehearsals for us short so… I thought we could try it out tonight.”

“I’m…kinda busy tonight.”

“Busy?” Rachel repeats.

“Yeah, I've got _plans_ ,” she says, like explaining to a child.

“I know what you meant,” Rachel rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. “What are you up to?”

“Um, just a video game tourney with some of the people from Glee club.” Santana shrugs her backpack on and leans gently on her lacrosse stick. She wants to go home and make sure there are enough bags of chips and shower before everyone shows up. But Rachel Berry, Miss Popular herself, is talking to her in public and it’s one of those things that strikes Santana dumb and keeps her rooted in place.

“Oh,” Rachel deflates a little and brushes her fingertips through the ends of her hair.

“Um, but you could… you could join us?” Santana regrets the offer immediately. The only kinds of parties Rachel goes to are the kind that Puckerman and Brittany throw, with lots of booze, loud music, and dancing. At least, Santana assumes those are the only sorts of parties Rachel would be caught dead at. She feels stupid, and the sweat drying at the nape of her neck is making her itchy.

But Rachel perks up, her dark brown eyes bright and sparkly again. “Really?” She bounces on the balls of her feet once, twice, and then claps. It’s the same kind of enthusiasm Santana would expect from Brittany, co-captain of the Cheerios and real life version of Bubbles. But this is Rachel Berry, future Hollywood star, student counsel president, and shoe-in for prom queen.

Santana’s a pig and stares at her tits for all of two seconds before she remembers Rachel isn’t blind, and she’s also the co-president of the Future Women Leaders of the World. So, Santana looks up at her face, her broad grin and shiny eyes, and smiles a little herself.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Seven o’clock.” Santana scratches at her neck and rolls her shoulders. She desperately needs a hot shower and a some clean clothes. “You know where I live?”

“Santana, we used to have sleepovers at your place all the time in middle school.”

“Ohh yeah,” she blushes slightly and waves her stick around in the air.

“Maybe I’ll bring my pjs and we can make this a sleepover.” She says it in this completely casual-not-casual voice and follows it up with a slight lip bite that makes Santana go dumb(er) and jelly-kneed. She tries to fumble out a response, but Rachel is already bouncing off down the hall towards the doors leading out of the building.

* * *

“You got Berry’d,” Sam says around a mouthful of Doritos. His Spider-man shirt already has a bright orange smudge near the neckline and two streaks straight through the red spider logo. His black DS sits open in his lap, the intro music for Pokémon Black playing on loop as he fishes around in the Doritos bag for more chips. Santana is despondent, sprawled out on the couch in the basement, wearing her usual skinny jeans-and-nerd-shirt uniform (her favourite Cylon toaster shirt) and mismatched socks.

“Berry’d isn’t a thing, Sam.” Santana flails her legs in frustration and narrowly avoids knocking over an open two litre of orange soda.

“It totally is. Ask Mike when he shows up.”

“Mike?”

“And Quinn, actually.”

“What?!” Santana sits up abruptly and upsets her 3DS so it almost falls off of the back of the couch.

“Mike told me he was her date to the eighth grade prom. And Quinn got stuck with her in seven minutes in Heaven last year, twice. I’ve heard… war stories, I guess you could call ‘em.”

“War stories?” Santana’s brows shoot up and she gropes around for the plate of poptarts sitting on the coffee table. She breaks off a piece of brown sugar poptart, sticks it in her mouth, and chews with a questioning look on her face.

“Yeah, like, I dunno. Apparently she knows how to play people. Mike told me to stay friends, but that’s it.” Sam shrugs. He’s always been shit at putting things into words, so Santana shrugs too and chews on another piece of poptart.

She hears the front door open, and the sing-songy trill of her mother’s voice floats down the stairs. From the faint mumbling, she can identify Mike, Tina, and Quinn. She sits up fully and stomps up the stairs to save her friends.

* * *

“ _Mija_ , we’ll be gone until midnight. Make sure your friends are gone _before_ then.”

“And don’t trash the place, please,” her father adds as her mother drags him down the front steps and to the car. Santana waits in the doorway until her dad's Mercedes turns off the block, she almost has the door shut when a small grey Fiat pulls up in front of her house. She stares openly as Rachel Berry, actually Rachel Berry, slides out of the driver's seat and waves.

“Santana!” Rachel says, a little breathlessly, as she heads up the walkway. She brushes past Santana, smelling like peaches and honey, and slips into the foyer of the house before pressing a quick kiss to Santana’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late. I know you said seven but …” she waves her hands in the air and grins. That's not an explanation, but Santana guesses it's good enough.

“Well, you’re here. We're in the basement. Do you have a DS?” Santana closes the door and switches the locks, turning to lead Rachel downstairs. Rachel looks gorgeous in a simple blue-and-teal striped dress, silver flats, and her brown hair loose down her back. Santana holds back, dropping her gaze down Rachel's backside in a quick swoop before trotting to catch up with her as she heads towards the basement staircase.

“No? I just figured I’d watch.”

“Hah,” Santana snorts and shoves her hands in her pockets, “that’s what he said.”

“Hm?" Rachel tilts her head and then her eyebrows shoot up and she blushes, " _oh_." Santana chuckles and grins.

“Real quick. You didn’t… bring… yanno…”

“Jammies?” Rachel shakes her somewhat oversized purse at Santana and then laughs at Santana’s mixed reaction. “No, but I always carry a spare pair of underwear, just in case.” She flashes a smile and trots down the stairs. Santana can hear the mixed reaction over the sound of Super Smash Bros.

* * *

Santana has lost five rounds of Brawl, gotten knocked out in the second round of the championship tourney, and lost her resolve to stay out of her parents’ liquor cabinet. Sam is halfway to a fifth championship win and Santana is halfway through her dad’s cheapest tequila. Rachel is perched on the couch arm next to Quinn, who is cursing under her breath and focused intently on the screens of her DS.

Everyone else is distracted. Tina is sitting in Mike’s lap and they’re talking with Artie who is pointing something out on his limited edition Zelda 3DS. Sam and Quinn are absorbed with their battle. Jacob and Zizes are kicking the shit out of each other on the Wii. And Santana is staring at Rachel with the intensity of someone who has had a little too much tequila.

Rachel looks up when Pikachu screams “PIKAHHHHHHH” on screen and Zizes whoops over Jacob’s moan of misery. She catches Santana’s gaze and holds it, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She tilts her head towards the bathroom and Santana shrugs in response.

Rachel slips off of the sofa and steps into the bathroom without anyone noticing. Santana follows shortly, stepping into the dimly lit bathroom with the tequila bottle gripped to her chest.

“Gimme that,” Rachel whispers, and her hands are prying the bottle from Santana’s hold before Santana can respond. The bottle clinks on the tile floor where Rachel sets it down and then Rachel is standing a few inches away from Santana in the near-dark. A halo of lavender light from the faux-flame night light makes Rachel look incredibly sad, and Santana reaches out to brush a lock of hair from her eyes.

“You smell like tequila,” Rachel keeps her voice low and tilts her head towards Santana’s lingering touch.

“I’ve been drinking,” Santana shrugs a little, trying to shake the confusion from her brain. Keep cool.

“Why?”

“I’ve been … um,” Santana swallows heavily when Rachel bites her lower lip. “Trying to distract myself.”

“From?” Rachel traces her nails up from Santana’s wrists to her elbow.

“Aahh…” Santana shudders at the touch and shuts her eyes, trying to focus on the coolness of the bathroom door, instead of the crackling electricity from Rachel’s fingers. “You.” She exhales and opens her eyes again.

“Why me?” Rachel pouts slightly and steps away from Santana, the lavender glow of light falling away from her face. Santana straightens and stuffs her hands into her pockets, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Cause I don’t have a crush on Quinn Fabray,” Santana says after a beat and squints into the dark. She can’t see past the pool of light and the music from Super Smash Bros is too loud to hear anything soft over.

“Oh,” Rachel breathes, but stays out of the light, away from Santana’s gaze.

“Why are we in the bathroom?”

“To… talk?” Rachel offers. Her foot must collide with the tequila bottle because something clatters against the bathroom tile and it makes both of them jump in surprise. Rachel laughs nervously and then Santana steps into the light and reaches for her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her in for a kiss.

* * *

Santana doesn’t know how to kiss sweetly. Brittany had taught her the summer before 8th and nothing about that lazy afternoon had been gentle. Santana’s hands ghost over Rachel's hips, up her back, and into her hair. She grabs, gently, and tilts Rachel’s head back just enough to press deeper into the kiss.

Rachel has never been kissed in a way that makes her go instantly weak at the knees. She rocks her hips into Santana’s and moans softly. Santana’s hands wander down Rachel’s back, tracing the shape of her muscles and the curve of her ass slowly before sliding her hands up Rachel’s front.

“Can I?” Santana breaks the kiss for a moment, breathing in short, tequila-laced bursts. Her lips feel swollen and her thumbs graze the sides of Rachel’s tits. Santana’s not that much of a pig, really.

“Fuck,” Rachel actually shivers either at Santana’s light touch or the fact that Santana had asked in that breathlessly husky voice, and she simply nods her consent before pressing back in for a kiss.

Santana covers Rachel’s breasts, her palms hot through the thin fabric of Rachel’s dress. She squeezes lightly and gasps when she realises Rachel isn’t wearing a bra. Rachel isn’t bashful, but she giggles a little, and Santana takes the opportunity to sprinkle kisses across Rachel’s jaw and down her neck. She sucks at the skin lightly and Rachel’s laugh turns into a surprised moan.

“Oh.”

“Maybe…” Santana says against the skin of Rachel’s neck, her warm breath cooling the suction mark.

“Hmm?” Rachel’s fingers play through the long fall of Santana’s hair and down her back, stroking the soft fabric of her shirt.

“You should spend the night.” Santana straightens and drops her hands to Rachel’s hips. Rachel whimpers in protest. “I mean it,” Santana insists.

“Tonight?” Rachel stands a little straighter and searches Santana’s eyes. The lavender light is starting to look normal and Rachel thinks she’d like to stare at Santana in this light forever. Her reverie is broken by someone thumping on the bathroom door. She jumps and yelps before she can stop herself, but Santana manages to swallow a laugh and grips Rachel’s hips tighter.

“YO BERRY. Some people gotta use the facilities.” Sam’s imitation of Rocky is god awful, but Rachel’s face breaks into a grin anyway.

“I’m terribly sorry, Sam. Santana and I will be out shortly.”

“Wait, you’re in there with Santana?” Sam is too shocked to keep up the awful accent and Santana actually barks out a laugh. “DUDE.”

“It’s not what you think. Santana got some dip on her shirt and I’m helping her get the stain out.” As Rachel is talking, she’s also yanking up the hem of Santana’s shirt, pulling it off, and tossing it into the sink. “Just a few minutes?”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam grumbles.

Rachel shrugs apologetically and Santana dips her head in for one more kiss, quick and chaste, before splashing water across her shirt and reaching for the door knob.

“Yeah.” Rachel says softly.

“Huh?” Santana turns around, squinting in the dark. Rachel is glowing lavender, her hair a little more ruffled than before, and her lips dark red.

“You want me to stay the night. I said yeah.”

“Oh.” Santana chews on her lip and then grins, “you’ll really like my shower.”

“What do you me- oh.” Rachel blushes deeply, but Santana is already slipping out of the door and into the basement proper where Zizes is loudly taunting Jacob and his ‘lack of skillz’. Rachel settles in next to Quinn and smirks when the colour drains from Santana’s face.

 _This is going to be good._ Rachel thinks, and lets Quinn touch her bare knee under the scrutiny of Santana’s dark gaze.

 _War stories._ Santana thinks, and seethes when Rachel leans in to whisper something to Quinn.

 _I’m glad Mike warned me._ Sam thinks, and finishes off another poptart as he watches Santana shoot daggers at Quinn from across the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that Santana isn't "nerdy" like how most people define nerds but, I mean, she's sort of geeky which falls within the realm of nerdiness so that qualifies. Plus, she's basically me in high school just... well, I didn't put her on the golf team because that's just TOO easy.


	4. Day 4: Celebrity Couple

_“MsBerryMsBerry! OVERHERE! OVERHERE! Turnleft! Turnright! OVERTHESHOULDER! SMILE! CanIgetapoutMsBerry! Overhere! MsBerry! DOTHEBERRY!”_

\---

Rachel is a pro at the whole red carpet thing. Fifteen years and she seems to never tire of striking her standard pose (which TMZ named _‘The Berry’_ ), flashing a brilliant smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, and laughing at the absurdity of the photographers.

Santana had originally vowed to never get roped onto the red carpet. “Managers and producers stay off camera,” she said, “and since I am a music producer, I stay on the sidelines.” There was a lot of pointing with her iPhone and dramatic emphasis, Santana’s speciality. Somehow, a combination of nerves and Rachel’s incredibly talented hands convinced her to walk the red carpet at Rachel’s side. By the time they’d made their way to their seats, Santana had 54 texts from Sam, Puck, Quinn, and everyone from her label telling her she looked phenomenal and _why didn’t you tell me you were walking the carpet!_

Rachel never goes down the carpet alone after that first time. TMZ lists them as the new Ellen and Portia, but _People's_ is nicer about it by stating they’re the face of the new generation of out gay celebrities. “You’re the only celebrity in this relationship,” Santana reminds her, before she jets off to a meeting in Morocco with Rihanna. 

This night is special. It’s her first trip to the Emmy’s where she’s been nominated for an award, so the nervous jitters are making her stomach flip flop. She refuses champagne and sips a ginger ale. She eats a wheat cracker that Santana found in her purse. She wrings her hands and tries to physically hold her stomach together. She’s a wreck.

“Babe,” Santana says softly and tries to comfort her by rubbing her shoulder. It helps, really, but Rachel is too wrapped up in the dramatic possibility of achieving EGOT before her 35th birthday.

What snaps her out of it is her manager, Kevin, leaning over her shoulder and whispering into her ear “the gossip columns are going to say you're pregnant tomorrow. Stop touching your stomach and drink some champagne.” Somewhere across the room she hears her name and when she looks up she sees Kurt cutting through the crowd like a prowling shark. She stands, forces a calm smile, and quickly takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. 

“Rachel Barbra Berry, _look at you_.” Kurt is always in awe at the mature version of Rachel, the one who curls her hair, wears Louboutins, and has an ad campaign for Covergirl. He coos over her stunning Givenchy gown and custom heels, squeezes Santana’s shoulder affectionately, and hurries off backstage to begin preparing to present. 

“Why is he presenting, again?” Santana adjusts the fall of her gown over her knees and arches a brow at Kevin.

“He won the daytime Emmy for lead actor in a drama series. He’s like, the youngest one to do it, and a trailblazer because his soap is the first gay male centric soap on regular daytime TV.” Kevin leans across his cup of coffee, his eyebrows moving emphatically with his words. “I’m a huge fan.” He explains and sits back, smoothing the lapels of his jacket.

“Ah.” Santana swallows her champagne and puts her hand on Rachel’s knee before she can start bouncing her leg like she does when she’s nervous. “You’re going to win tonight, Rachel. I’m psychic, remember?”

And she does win. Like anyone thought her amazing, gut wrenching guest star role as a Broadway star with throat cancer on the hottest medical drama, _Sick Pay_ , was worth anything less than a coveted Emmy.

She’s literally the only surprised person in the room.

She’s already crying when she reaches the podium, and Santana starts to cry when she see’s Rachel crying. Kevin would laugh, but he’s too busy appearing as the best, most supportive manager in the whole world. 

There’s the awkward hug at the mic and Rachel is blushing because Mariska Hargitay is one of the presenters and she’s on Rachel’s exception list. Rachel is saying something to Mariska and the male presenter - Santana doesn’t recognise him but he has that ruggedly handsome cop face - and then she’s hefting the Emmy in her hand and standing in front of the mic with a shocked smile on her face.

“I know all of you expected me to get this. But I’m standing up here and this achievement has me utterly stunned. I wouldn’t be up here without the remarkable opportunity given to me by my friend, Quinn Fabray, to take this role on _Sick Pay_. I wouldn’t be up here if it weren’t for the amazing cast or writing staff. But I wouldn’t be in this business at all if it weren’t for my remarkable fiancée, Santana Lopez.” She motions out into the crowd and Santana feels the heat race to her cheeks and ears when she feels the audience shift to look at her. “Santana was there with me when I got my first role on a crummy off-off Broadway show, and when I took the lead on _Son of a Witch_. She was there when I got my first Tony, and then there at each award I received after that, at the Oscars, Grammys, the numerous returns to the Tonys, and tonight, for my first Emmy. Santana knows me better than my dads. She knows exactly how I take my coffee, that I love banana pancakes for dinner, and that I’m still addicted to Wii Sports. She is my best friend and I am grateful for her support every day. I love you, Santana, this one’s for you.” 

Santana smiles at Rachel - the smile she reserves for her at midnight when Rachel has toothpaste on her chin, when she’s tipsy and baby talking to their cat, when she’s sobbing at the end of Moulin Rouge. Rachel is swanning off the stage, chattering excitedly with Mariska and the guy. Kevin is typing away on his cell phone, a smug smirk on his face. Santana waits until she feels the camera and attention turn away from her. She reaches for Rachel’s untouched glass of champagne and swallows it in one gulp.

“This is golden,” Kevin whispers, and shakes Santana’s shoulder softly, “your wedding is totally _Vogue_ material now.” 

\---

“Saaaan,” Rachel drawls and licks salt from her bottom lip. She smells like tequila and limes and salt. The Glamour after party is in full swing, the large white tent is surrounded with dark orange fabric panels, the ceiling dripping with dark blue fairy lights and big crystal chandeliers. 

“Raaaach,” Santana mocks, takes a sip of wine, and watches as Rachel licks a line of salt from the back of her hand and then tilts her shot back into her mouth.

“I can’t wait to see Wikipedia in the morning.”

“Can we please sleep in?” Santana’s eyes go wide and she pulls her best puppy dog face.

“Hmmm…” Rachel hums and licks stray grains of salt from the back of her hand. “Only if you promise to make it worth my while.”

“Mmm,” Santana studies Rachel over the rim of her wine glass. She drops her gaze down the line of her neck, over the sharp lines of her collar bones, and to the navy blue silk of her bodice. Rachel sucks in her bottom lip and watches Santana, who makes quite a show of studying the intricate pleats of her bodice.

“Santana,” Rachel whines after a beat and swats at Santana’s thigh.

“Oh okay, fine.” Santana grins and finishes off her cup of wine with a gulp.

\---

_Rachel Berry - Pregnant?_

_Last night’s Emmy’s were a big night for the Broadway-cum-Hollywood star in more way than one. She was seen snubbing champagne in favour of ginger ale and crackers. Ms. Berry, whose win last night puts her on level with other EGOT honourees such as Barbra Streisand and Audrey Hepburn, gave a warm speech dedicating the award to her fiancée, Santana Lopez. The two have been dating since late 2013 and just recently announced their engagement. Perhaps there’s a shotgun wedding in their future?_

_Bump patrol is on alert!_

\---

"Rach?" Santana is leaning over her laptop with a room service latte in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She's squinting at the article on TMZ's website that Kevin had linked to her. Her glasses are somewhere in the bedroom and she's too lazy to go back and find them, so instead she's puzzling out the somewhat blurry text while her coffee cools.

"Hmm?" Rachel looks up from the couch where she's flipping through the OnDemand channels, still in her shorts-and-shirt pyjama ensemble. 

"I think TMZ is spreading a rumour that you're knocked up."

"Ugh," Santana doesn't have to turn around to know that Rachel is rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in the air. Over a dozen years in Manhattan will do that to a person. "Figures. I was so nervous last night about the Emmy."

"I'm sure Kevin is working his magic. No need to be concerned."

They're halfway through _National Treasure 4: The Nazca Lines_ when Rachel sits up suddenly and looks at Santana, who is almost asleep at the other end of the couch. 

"Maybe we should think about doing that."

"Huh?" 

"Having kids, I mean. We're engaged, and we've talked our early spring wedding to death. But we haven't even thought about kids."

"I thought we agreed to take things one step at a time."

"Well, why not? Most of the wedding is planned perfectly thanks to Kevin. The next logical step is-"

"If I recall correctly, the rhyme goes 'first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage'."

"Oh please Santana, you know you don't believe that. Brittany and Mike had both of their kids before they decided to get married."

"Yeah bu-"

"And you never judged them."

"I know but..." Santana pulls her glasses off and rubs at her eyes roughly, hoping that she actually fell asleep on the sofa and this is all a bizarre dream. However, when she opens her eyes again, Rachel is still sitting at the other end of the sofa with a hurt puppy dog face. "Babe, you just got your EGOT. I'm finally hitting my stride at work. We barely have time to take care of our two cats and the dog."

"I... I was thinking of taking some time off from work. You know, my dads are getting close to retirement and, well, we're doing so well financially it just kind of makes sense."

"Hm," Santana worries her bottom lip and sighs, "we can think about it. But can we hold off on major reproductive discussions until after the wedding? I'm kind of stressed out about my speech for the reception and my vows. I don't want to worry about baby makin' magic or if the sperm is meeting the egg."

"Deal!" Rachel squeals and lunges across the couch, smothering Santana with kisses.

"Oh god stop! Stop!" Santana is laughing and kisses her back. "Look! Nicholas Cage is saving priceless treasures from evil men!"

"It's an evil woman this time, Santana. I should know, I played her."

"Of course," Santana laughs and runs her hands through Rachel's hair once Rachel settles and rests her head on Santana's chest. "I love you, Berry."

"Love you too, Santana."


	5. Day 5: Subtlety Fail

“You like her.” The way Brittany says it leaves no room for argument. She leans back against the walk calmly and taps at the tile floor with the toe of her sneaker.

“Who?” Santana shifts away from the sink and smudges a glob of lip gloss across her lower lip.

“Rachel Berry,” Brittany says simply, and watches Santana’s face for a reaction. 

“Dude, no.” Santana says it firmly and brushes past Brittany into the hallway.

“So you’re into Berry, eh?” Puck is lounging against the locker next to Santana, watching her unload her backpack into her locker.

“ _What?_ ” Santana stops and slowly turns her head to face Puck.

“Dude, seriously? You’re gonna act like you have no clue what I’m talking about? C’mon man.” Puck rubs at the freshly shaven sides of his head in frustration.

“Puck,” she snaps and slams her locker door shut. She glares at him and then stomps off down the hallway.

\---

“Santana,” Rachel says casually, and sits down in a chair two rows above her in the choir room. Finn rolls his eyes and taps his fingers against the head of the snare drum.

“Berry,” Santana’s voice lacks the usual venom and this causes Artie to huff in annoyance. “Problem, Murderball?” 

“No, just waiting for the bell,” Artie shrugs and wheels himself over to Mercedes who is looking busy with a stack of sheet music.

\---

“We should stop this.”

“What is _this_ , exactly.” Santana smooths her palms over Rachel’s breasts and smirks when she’s rewarded with one of Rachel’s breathy whimpers. Rachel doesn’t respond, but shifts back against the shelf and rattles a few cans of duster spray. The janitor’s closet is small, dark, and smells like Pine Sol, but it’s the only place in the entire school that locks from the inside. 

Rachel arches into the touch and sighs when she’s rewarded with a trail of kisses from her earlobe to her shoulder. Santana leans back, briefly, and shifts the shoulder of Rachel’s dress to the side, exposing enough skin to bite. Rachel hisses when Santana’s teeth sting her skin and her eyes flutter shut as soon as Santana’s hands push up her thighs and under the skirt of her dress.

“We should stop this,” Santana breathes out against the bite mark on Rachel’s shoulder before brushing her knuckles against her damp panties.

\---

" _Everybody knows._ ” Tina tilts back in her chair and looks over at Sam, who just shrugs and tries to look really interested in his cuticles. 

“That's an exaggeration. I'm sure Mr. Schue doesn't. And anyway, what’re we supposed to do about that,” Quinn huffs, and crosses her legs primly.

“I dunno, tell them to stop being so stupid about it?” Finn grumps from his usual position behind the drum set.

“It’s not like they’re hurting anyone,” Artie wheels in a circle around Mercedes.

“But they’re lying,” Finn purses his lips and frowns. “That’s hurting someone.”

"Oh that's rich," Quinn sneers and rolls her eyes at Finn.

“Just because Rachel stopped crawling all over your dick doesn’t mean she’s hurting anyone.” Puck snaps.

“Rachel and Santana can do whatever they want,” Brittany says after a beat. “And you should shut it ‘cause they’re probably getting out of the janitor’s closet by now.”

\---

Rachel breaks out the short skirts after Santana tells her she’ll never come out. Friday, day five of never-ending-legs, and Santana’s eyes are glued to Rachel’s thighs the entire time she’s presenting a Regionals proposal in Glee.

If Santana wasn’t so absorbed with Rachel’s legs, she would’ve noticed Finn and Quinn death-glaring her. But Rachel has kept Santana high and dry for almost six days and she’s so hard up she’s throwing caution to the wind. Brittany bumps her calf with the toe of her shoe and Santana jolts upright.

“Could you be any more obvious?” Brittany whispers, and Santana’s stomach flip flops nervously.

\---

“We should probably stop this,” Rachel says before Santana has a chance to slide her fingers up Rachel’s thigh. Santana frowns, her fingers pausing at Rachel’s knee. She strokes her knuckles against the soft skin of Rachel’s leg, watching her face carefully for a beat.

“Why?” Santana’s hand continues up Rachel’s thigh, stopping only when Rachel whimpers quietly. 

“Because… because…”

“We’ll come out, if that makes it better.” Santana leans closer, close enough to smell Rachel’s shampoo and hear her soft, shallow breathing. Rachel watches Santana’s eyes glint in the dim light of the bedside table.

“Yeah?” Rachel mumbles, trying to focus more on Santana’s eyes than the pressure of her fingers on her inner thigh.

“Mm, if that’s what you want.” Santana hovers a kiss over Rachel’s mouth and strokes the skin of her thigh gently.

“Please,” Rachel whispers, and Santana kisses her hard enough for both of them to see stars.


	6. Day 6: Meet the Parents

It’s awkward enough that Leroy walked in on Rachel straddling Santana during the climax of _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_. But now they’re sitting around the dinner table, eating stuffed squash and discussing Santana’s future plans like nothing had happened. 

“New York, then?” Hiram takes a sip of wine and smiles at Leroy like it’s a private joke.

“Yes… I was thinking about majoring in business at Columbia. My grades are good enough and it’s possible I could get a scholarship if I apply to enough places.” She piles her spoon with squash and fake meat and stuffs her mouth full to avoid answering further.

“I think it’s a lovely plan, Santana.” Rachel interjects and reaches for a roll in the middle of the table. “We can be roommates our junior year.” Rachel beams at Santana, ignoring the look her fathers share.

“Oh yes, and then you can spend all of your time grinding against each other instead of studying.” Hiram blurts out before he can stop himself. Leroy winces into his glass of Chardonnay and tries not to look at Rachel or Santana.

“DAD!” Rachel scoffs and jumps to her feet.

“What, it’s true,” Hiram says plainly and folds his hands in his lap.

“Mr. Berry… I’m… sorry about that. We didn’t think…”

“Yes, I imagine that’s generally the problem when you cage two hormone fuelled animals and leave them alone.” 

“Hiram…” 

“Leroy, this is serious.”

“Not really, dad.” Rachel quips and pushes her chair in with a dramatic sigh, “you and daddy have lectured me on and on about safe sex with either gender. Santana and I were just kissing. With the door ajar, I might add.”

“Maybe I should g-“

“No, Santana. We need to finish the movie.”

“Now listen here, young lady.” Hiram stands, his napkin tumbling from his lap.

“Hiram,” Leroy says with a sigh, “let them go finish their movie. At least she can’t get her pregnant.” 

“Huh. That is comforting.” Hiram sits back down and waves his hand, “I’m sorry Santana. I’m just not used to the idea of my daughter on top of someone like that.”

Rachel flushes and grabs Santana’s hand, practically dragging her out of the dining room and towards the staircase.

“I guess we should just get used to this,” Hiram sighs once their footsteps disappear up the stairs.

“You should be glad she’s not bringing that gangly kid around any more.” Leroy reaches for the bottle of wine in the centre of the table but Hiram grabs it first and tops off both of their glasses.

“But what about Jesse. He was phenomenal. Our grandchildren would’ve ended up on Broadway before we retired.”

“That’s true, but she seems to really enjoy Santana.”

“Leroy,” Hiram groans and rubs his forehead. Leroy laughs and pats Hiram’s thigh.

“Come on Hiram, she’s not just our little girl any more. Plus, the Lopez’s are members of the Wine of the Month club.” Leroy grins and raises his brows.

“How do you even know that, Leroy Berry.” Hiram takes a bite of squash and narrows his eyes at his husband.

“I have my connections, Hiram, you know this.” 

“And that’s why I love you,” Hiram sighs dreamily and laughs when Leroy bats his eyelashes. “Fine. We’ll give them an hour before I chase that girl out of here with a megaphone.”

“Deal,” Leroy squeezes Hiram’s thigh reassuringly and grins when he hears faint giggling from upstairs.

“Oh I’m never going to get used to this,” Hiram grumbles miserably and tilts his gaze up to the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. This one is totally the worst.


	7. Day 7: Free Day 001 [NYC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do two free day ficlets. This is the first one.

Santana’s apartment is in Borough Park. It’s on 59th street, barely a block away from the 66th precinct, and on the third floor of this teal clapboard monstrosity. There’s no front yard and the backyard is poured concrete and serves as the landlord’s dumping ground for rusty motorcycles and car tires. There’s no parking and she only has access to her apartment via a rickety iron staircase up the back of the house. Rent is cheap and she works two blocks over at a small Jewish delicatessen where she’s paid two-seventy-five over minimum wage and gets a pound of cold cuts a week. 

It’d be hell if there wasn’t a great Chinese food place that delivers for free and if she didn’t have an AC unit that blasts icy cold air on demand.

She’s been there for four months before she decides to invite Rachel over.

She’s hesitant about texting her, but after the entire contents of a $5 bottle of wine, she sends off a short text.

_Come over 4 wine n cheese Sat?_

She mutes her phone before she gets a reply, opens up another bottle of wine, fills her narrow tub with warm water, and drops in a bath bomb. It’s only been an hour, but when she gets out of the bath and checks her phone, she has four text messages from Rachel.

_Santana, what a lovely idea. Except, I’m still vegan. Maybe I could bring over some Middle Eastern food and a movie?_

_Santana please tell me that wasn’t a drunk text. I understand from Quinn that your drunk texts are much longer and very filthy._

_Are you ignoring me now?_

_Fine! It *sounded* like a good idea but I’d rather spend Saturday alone._

Santana actually laughs because the texts came within the space of 20 minutes and she can practically see Rachel fuming in her tiny NYADA dorm room, probably already stubbornly in her pyjamas and fuzzy slippers.

_Grl chill. Bring the wine, I’ll order Chinese, and I’ll drag out my VHS player._

She air dries on her bed while she waits for the response, and listens to the noise of the neighbourhood outside. The Prinz’s dog is howling at some dog on another street, the Schmidt twins are screaming from the top floor of the adjacent triplex, and old Mr. Sokol on the second floor is listening to an audiotape turned up to 11.

 _“I reached for my GPS but it had been torn from my suit when I was sucked out of my ship. I had a back up survival map, but it was so big, so unspecific, and my hump took me over so many states that it was practically just a map of the U.S…. my head was still clouded with anger and doubt. I told her I didn’t know my position, didn’t know where to go…”_ **

Her phone trills and she rolls onto her back to read the text.

_That sounds like a fantastic plan. See you around 6ish? And I hope you're kidding about the VHS player thing._

Santana sends back a short ‘k’ and rolls off her bed to get into her nightshirt. 

\---

“Your staircase is _outside_.” Rachel exhales sharply and dumps a yellow plastic bag on the short counter in Santana’s kitchen.

“Yes…?” Santana’s brows knit together and she shuts the door to her apartment. “This used to be the roof.”

“Of course.” Rachel rifles through the bag and produces two bottles of wine, carefully wrapped in brown recycled paper and taped with printed masking tape.

“Is that _fancy_ wine?” Santana is next to Rachel in a flash and picks at the brown paper wrapped around the bottles.

“Huh? Yeah. I gave my senior ‘buddy’ $40 for good wine and she brought back a red and white.” Santana makes a show of unwrapping the wine and ooh’s when she sees that it’s a 2004 vintage. 

“Very fancy,” Santana grabs a corkscrew from a nearby drawer and nods towards the small fridge. “There’s a menu on the fridge for the Chinese place that delivers for free. Order extra veggie egg rolls and they’ll throw in two free soups. They have this killer veggie coconut soup that tastes better than the meaty version.” She’s working the cork out of the bottle with a determined look on her face, not paying attention to Rachel at all.

“You want _me_ to order dinner?” Rachel is holding onto the menu and staring at it, confused.

“Well, yeah, I’m working on the wine, and you always order when we're at your dorm. Plus, Mrs. Zhang doesn’t like the way I pronounce things on the menu. We’ll get the food faster.” She waves the freshly-popped cork at Rachel, “kung pao chicken with cashews and extra broccoli.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Rachel mutters and walks into the living room (which is really just a carpeted extension of the orange linoleumed kitchen) to place the order. “Ohmygod SANTANA YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FURNITURE!”

“I do too!” Santana runs around the bar with the second wine bottle in hand. “See, sofa.” She motions at the 80s style futon, milk carton side tables, and cinder block entertainment stand. “See, furnished.”

“Santana you’re living like a single guy. This is gross.” She sits down on the futon gingerly and looks back at the front of the menu. “Silence, I’m a Chinese food ordering pro.”

\---

“This bean curd is the best I’ve had in all of New York,” Rachel’s mouth is so full it comes out more of a series of ‘mm-mmMmmm’ but Santana gets the gist. 

“I know, Mrs. Zhang is like a wizard with tofu.”

“You eat tofu?” Rachel stuffs her chopsticks back into her container and stares at Santana with wide, glassy eyes. 

“Duh, it’s cheaper than meat and I only have money for meat-tastic take-out once a month.” She shovels a few pieces of chicken into her mouth with a spork and chomps unattractively at the bite. She turns her attention back to the movie, Rachel’s choice of _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ , as Santana had begged for something other than musicals.

“That’s neat, Santana.” Rachel says it so earnestly that Santana glances at her and offers a half-smile while still trying to hold in her partially chewed food.

“Good movie choice,” Santana mumbles after a minute and then shoves another bite into her mouth. Rachel beams at the side of her face and picks her chopsticks back up.

\---

“It’s raining,” Rachel whines and skims her fingers around the rim of her empty wine glass. Rain is pounding the thinly shingled roof of Santana’s apartment, wind battering the long front windows. Four car alarms go off and the Prinz’s dog starts howling, this time to be let in.

“Obviously,” Santana swallows the last sip of wine and places the glass down on her faux-coffee table. “Don’t you have an umbrella?” 

“No…”

“You live in New York, I’m pretty sure you watch the news. How did you not see the ‘90% chance of rain after 8PM, lasting through 4AM and possibly on into the morning’ all over local news AND the papers.” 

“Well,” Rachel humphs and sucks in her bottom lip. The room shudders with a roll of thunder and Santana laughs, actually laughs at her. “Santana. That’s not very nice. You invited me here for wine and cheese, and now we’ve eaten all of the egg rolls and drank both bottles of wine. And we’ve let the movie roll over again.” 

“It’s totally nice,” Santana lunges across her lap and grabs the remote, “let’s use the bunny ears and watch whatever’s on the CW.” 

“It’s probably reruns of _Friends_ ,” Rachel mopes, but lets Santana wrestle the remote from her lap and switch over from the DVD player to the TV. 

\---

They watch three reruns of _Friends_ , during which Rachel passes out under Santana’s couch blanket. Santana has work in the morning and, rather than wrestling Rachel awake and out of the house, she slips off of the couch, kills the power to the TV and the kitchen lights, and quietly tiptoes to her bedroom.

\---

“SANTANA!” Rachel is shouting into the phone and Santana is crouched by the dumpster behind the deli, one finger pressed to her free ear so she can hear properly.

“What? Rachel, why are you screaming. Did Mrs. Baum invite you downstairs for tea? It happens every day. Don’t worry. Just tell her you’re n-“

“No! Why am I here!?”

“Um… you fell asleep? And I didn’t want to wake you up?” Santana glances at the back door to the deli, and then pulls her phone away to check the time. Five minute break and she’s burned two of them.

“Oh.” She hears Rachel exhale on the other end and there’s some rustling. 

“Oh.. that’s it? Were you worried why it was daylight and you were crashed on my couch?”

“Yes. I was incredibly concerned and since you weren’t around I felt like I was on an episode of _Candid Camera_ or _Punk’d_.”

“Rachel you have to be famous to end up on _Punk’d_ and I’m pretty sure _Candid Camera_ hasn’t been on TV in ages. Look I gotta go, my break is over in a minute and my boss’ll flip if I don’t get back to the counter on time. If you want to hang out after work, just stay at my place. There’s some Amy’s vegan crap in the freezer and to-go menus all over the fridge. If you could water the spider plant in the window and pick up my mail from Mrs. Baum I’d call us even.”

“Okay, okay. What time do you get home?”

“My shift’s over at four.” Santana hangs up before Rachel has a chance to start talking. 

\---

“I am so glad you’re finally here, Santana,” Rachel is standing on Santana’s porch wearing one of her flannel shirts and a pair of her sleep shorts. It makes Santana pause at the top stairs and almost drop her bag of groceries.

“Rach… lookin’ good.” Santana tries to smooth over her pause and trots up the last step and past Rachel to her open door. “Problem?”

“I spent two hours in my rumpled, slept-in clothes being fed tea and discussing vegan Bundt cake with your landlady, Mrs. Baum. She’s promised to bake some for me next weekend.” 

“Next weekend?” Santana raises her brows and drops the groceries onto her kitchen table. “Awfully presumptive of Mrs. Baum. Was she spiking her tea with Bourbon again?”

“I don't think so. Apparently, she’s ecstatic that you finally have a _‘lady visitor’_ and she wanted to let me know that she’s totally supportive of the LGBTQ movement and that her son’s a gay, too.” Rachel pulls herself up onto Santana’s counter and watches Santana moving things from the paper bags into her fridge.

“Mrs. Baum moves faster than my mom. It’s ridiculous.” Santana places a loaf of vegan bread on Rachel’s lap and stands on her tippy-toes to shove a bag of chips in the cabinet above her fridge.

“I noticed. She was also thrilled that I'm, in her words, a good Jewish girl. This is expensive bread.”

“I wanted sandwiches for dinner.” Santana shrugs.

“Who says I’m staying for dinner?” Rachel raises her brows and squeezes the loaf experimentally. Santana turns from the fridge and moves closer to Rachel until she’s leaning into Rachel’s dangling leg. 

“ _I_ say.” Rachel bites her bottom lip and looks over Santana’s face.

“Okay,” Rachel says finally and Santana grins broadly.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** This excerpt is from the novel World War Z.


End file.
